Blindness
by Thenerdygeekyponders
Summary: Above, the sky is a painfully beautiful expanse of blue, cloudless, still. It's cold on this day though, the air snapping and brisk, the world is awaiting rain, winter.


Blindness

"Castiel," chimes Israfil, the sound high and clear, a pure vibration like glass being struck, like wind chimes on a porch. Castiel has always found the sound of the Host's voice pleasant, despite the layers of distortion that come from having a vessel, and Israfil has had many. Israfil stands next to him, a small figure on the right, flesh pale, yet strong enough to bind light to bone. This body is smaller then the last the Principality favored.

"Israfil," Castiel nods, face of the vessel set in solemnity, the face of the Angel a myriad of emotions: confusion, pain, loss, abandonment, and the bewilderment of someone lost, strayed far from home. Israfil smiles gently then, a gesture tainted, sly, but still pure, still Holy and Divine and Angelic.

"Ah, humanity," the ancient watcher sighs, the grin throwing into relief age, crows feet, that should not exist on the young, rounded face of the body before him. The Angel however, shifts slightly, a gently mocking, yet understanding laughter accompanied by wings that seem to breathe in that moment.

"Yes," Castiel sighs in agreement, looking up, towards their vacant home, both faces mournful beyond measure. Castiel has made so many mistakes, has failed so many of the Host.

Above, the sky is a painfully beautiful expanse of blue, cloudless, still. It's cold on this day though, the air snapping and brisk, the world is awaiting rain, winter. The breath in both of the vessel's throats is sharp, biting, but refreshing and welcomed by the Angels.

"It is different, though, then I thought it would be," Castiel admits into the hospitable silence, the words painfully tiny and scared, _human_. Of course, Isfrafil is probably aware of this, but Castiel finds the need to tell _someone_ of what has conspired since the Host was cast out.

"It is…hard." The tan coated angel adds after a moment. "It's messy and painful."

"Oh yes," Israfil breathes to him, eyes wandering over the empty main street. They are both in St. Anthony's, a small town in the rural east coast, bordering on the Midwest. Israfil's voice sounds almost gleeful with these words, but then the Principality adds to the statement.

"It is indeed hard, _so hard_, to be human, to be one with one's own flaws." The principality says, voice like freezing ice, like a child's laughter. "And yet, it's rewarding, isn't it? To accept your mistakes, to accept the way we were created, for all the good and bad our Father intended."

"Yes, it is. Being human is…rewarding." Castiel says, the last word a surprise, but one that slips in comfortably between them, a kernel of truth in the pandemonium of their lives.

"Yes, rewarding." Israfil smiles again, tasting the word, turning the syllables around, angelic voice echoing words of the language of the Angels that means the same.

The town's 237 year old clock chimes the hour of noon, and the two wait, wings moving in undulating motions of excitement, for the time has come; their siblings are coming.

They come one or two together at first, and then more, and then a wave, a multitude of the Host, appearing in broad daylight on a wet street, the air chilled and misty around them, as rainclouds move steadfastly around the town. The air predominately smells like ozone, but other smells, the clamor of each Angel's unique scent also seeds the air.

Many of the vessels are young, wearing unimaginative suits, but some, like Castiel, Israfil— or even less rebellious angels like Baruch or Zophiel—have vessels that wear more relaxed clothing, or have ages below or above the average of 30.

But they all wear blue of some sort, the color having become their unofficial uniform, a way to unite the haggard crowd before Castiel, the host of lost warriors, thinkers, and healers. Blue is also a color of Castiel, and Castiel finds it embarrassing yet strangling flattering that so many would decide to show up in this town, on this day.

"Are you sure you're ready?" Israfil asks to the right, small hand resting upon Castiel's shoulder now.

"Yes," Castiel breathes, shoving as much bravado as possible into the word. Israfil nods, but the Principality's eyes show that Castiel is not alone, and will not be alone, not anymore.

"If you please, Israfil." Castiel asks, quiet as you please, voice barely heard in the material realm, but a supersonic boom on the other.

"It would be my honor, Castiel." Israfil replies, human head cocking to the side, now facing the crowd.

Then Israfil takes a deep breath, an intake of breath, magic, and manna.

And then,

Israfil sings.


End file.
